


Grief

by HellenARTworkS



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23560864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellenARTworkS/pseuds/HellenARTworkS
Summary: The sturdy man’s usually assertive tone drowned below the lump in his throat, dark circles framing his tired look as he followed the final heave before the casket reached the bottom.Ropes were then thrown inside the grave, and the two gravediggers looked up with a nod, leaving him space to give one last look at his last, lost hope.
Relationships: Quirin & Varian (Disney)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Grief

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to channel the pain I've been feeling lately into something. I have no regrets.  
> I shall thank @artvation for her incredible hype as I wrote this. And her love for Quirin, I guess.

Old Corona was quiet.  
The bell tower sounded its death knell as the midday sun shone over green spring fields, soft breeze rustling through treetops in quiet whispers.

The cemetery’s dusty soil crunched under their boots as the humble wooden casket was carried over the four villagers’ shoulders, village chief at the back, eyes glazed over in absentminded stupor.  
Ahead of their path, two gravediggers stood with their shovels on either side of the open grave, a mound of dirt behind them, a solemn expression on their weathered features.

Quirin's boots stepped over pebbles and exposed tree roots with sweat beading his forehead. The sun beat down on his head and the casket’s sharp edge dug a groove in his shoulder, and yet his expression barely shifted, even after the small crowd reached their destination and cautiously lowered the casket to the ground. His gaze hesitated over the head panel, on which he rested his gloved hand to say his final goodbye.

He stood up last and made way for the gravediggers to begin wrapping ropes around the casket, fellow pallbearers now holding their hats in their hands as they paid their respects.  
Then, one after the other, they wiped their sweat on their forearms and put their hats back, turning on their heels and walking back to their chores.

Only one hand kindly squeezed the tall leader’s shoulder as the casket was heave-ho’d into its grave, a gesture of comfort that came from the last villager who stood behind.

«We’ll postpone the council,» he offered, patting the man’s shoulder as he took his leave, «Sorry, Quirin.»

«Thank you, Geoff.»

The sturdy man’s usually assertive tone drowned below the lump in his throat, dark circles framing his tired look as he followed the final heave before the casket reached the bottom.  
Ropes were then thrown inside the grave, and the two gravediggers looked up with a nod, leaving him space to give one last look at his last, lost hope.

Quirin stood with both fists balled at his side, large chest moving up and down in one steady breath after the other as he lost himself in memories. His eyes glossed over as grief consumed him, a feeling long lost that came crashing back down on him like a sea storm.  
He took one last breath, then reached out to the mound at his side and grabbed a fistful of dirt, scattering it over the casket in a series of thunks and rattles as pebbles and dust reached its surface.

The grave diggers then began their work.

Powerlessly, the large village leader observed them fill up the grave, tossing shovelfuls of dirt and rocks and torn roots back into the hole in the ground.

He didn’t want to hold a big funeral. Leader or not, he was a humble man living a humble life. Old Corona offered only so much to its people, and its people thrived with what they had.  
Quirin was no different.

The priest blessed the casket in his home, and from his home his most trusted townspeople walked the path to the cemetery in respectful silence, accompanied only by the church’s bell and the sounds of nature.

The shovels’ metal went on scraping and clinking with each motion, and Quirin waited.  
He waited as the distance between him and the casket grew with each new fall of dirt, and even as the grave was filled and yet another wooden cross was added to Old Corona’s modest cemetery he did not move.

The wind caressed his rough features and fluttered the edge of his tunic, and the sun slowly stretched his shadow until the ground was tinted in the sunset’s colors.  
By the time his villagers were ready to retire in their homes for the night, Quirin knelt meekly by the new grave’s side, unable to move. Unwilling to move.

It was when he finally gathered the strength to pick himself up that steady footsteps crunched their way into their cemetery, behind his back.

«...hey, dad.»

As Quirin turned, he found his son standing behind him, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hands and a crooked smile on his lips. He regarded the young man with a slight nod, and with that Varian made his way to the grave, resting the flowers on top of the mound with a silent nod in respect.

Then he stepped back, and Quirin wrapped his arm around his frail shoulder.  
The wind whispered through their hair and past their frames, dusk beginning to show behind their shoulders. Before them, oil lamps began seeping light through the villagers’ windows.

«...I never really talked to you about your mother,» Quirin broke the silence, and the young alchemist’s eyes met with his father’s mourning silhouette.  
A large, authoritarian man. Tall and sturdy, hardly showing his emotions, now looked way too small and frail as a single tear trailed down his face.

«She was very much like you, son,» Quirin went on, «She was smart. Resourceful. And so _annoyingly_ positive in all she did.»

Varian listened.  
He could swear he could almost hear the hint of a nostalgic chuckle in his father’s breath.

«She loved you,» the man continued, «more than you can imagine.»

Then, Quirin stopped talking.  
Varian felt his father’s arm lift from his shoulder and fall back at his side, where his leather glove squeaked as he balled his hand into a fist. And silence went on.

«She reminded you of her,» he observed, and Quirin turned his head towards him.

«Yes.»

«That’s why you didn’t want her to leave Old Corona,» the young man continued, «and why you let her borrow mom’s clothes.»

«Mhm.»

Varian could hear a hitch in his father’s breath.  
His gloved hand reached out for Quirin’s, and the man welcomed it in his hold, giving it a light squeeze like he used to do when he was little. They stood a little longer, then Quirin took a deep breath.

«Let’s go, son. Dusk is here.»

«Mhm. Will you tell me more about mom?»

«Of course.»


End file.
